


An Important Distinction

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Advent Calendar, Baking, Bread, Christmas, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Party, Don't copy to another site, Dress Up, Friendly debate, Greg is Sweet, M/M, Protective Greg Lestrade, Scones, Stress Baking, biscuits vs cookies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 20:54:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16920210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: “Christmas drinks?” Mycroft repeated.He wavered back slightly, eyes widening, and Greg was sure he saw long fingers grip and re-grip the bespoke umbrella handle.Is he nervous?“First Saturday in December,” John said, grinning.Mycroft appeared not to hear, instead addressing his brother.“Very smooth, Sherlock.”“Of course,” Sherlock smirked, “if you’d rather not come, I’m sure Mummy would be quite happy to have you instead…”





	An Important Distinction

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is. A product of one of the most entertaining conversations I have had the privilege to be a part of on tumblr. What started as an anon ask about the exact nature of digestives veered into a biscuits vs cookies debate, complete with historical references, the exact nature of a flapjack, and all the possible ways one might pronounce the word 'scone'...and about a dozen other sidebars, each as interesting as the next.  
> I really had no choice but to write this.
> 
> Immense thanks go out to Mottlemoth and Hastalux for allowing me to paraphrase each of them from the original conversation, Lavender_and_vanilla for giving me an American perspective on biscuits and gravy, and owlinautumn for the firm shove in the direction of actually writing this.

 

“Christmas drinks?” Mycroft repeated.

He wavered back slightly, eyes widening, and Greg was sure he saw long fingers grip and re-grip the bespoke umbrella handle.

_Is he nervous?_

“First Saturday in December,” John said, grinning.

Mycroft appeared not to hear, instead addressing his brother.

“Very smooth, Sherlock.”

“Of course,” Sherlock smirked, “if you’d rather not come, I’m sure Mummy would be quite happy to have you instead…”

“I will see you at eight,” Mycroft replied stiffly. He nodded to Greg then turned on his heel and strode away.

“Having people over to avoid your parents-in-law?” Greg asked John.

“Yep,” John replied. “We went last year. Trust me, this is better.”

“We will expect you at eight,” Sherlock told Greg.

“Great,” Greg said. “Can I bring anything?”

“Nope, we’ve got the catering sorted,” John assured him. “Just bring yourself.”

“Right,” Greg replied.

_If Christmas drinks at his parents’ is so bad, why did he look so alarmed at the idea of going to Sherlock’s instead?_

Greg was just pondering that when he was summoned down to the morgue, and thoughts of Mycroft were shunted to the side.

+++

“Just pick one, Greg,” he muttered to himself. Shower and a shave, get dressed, be at Baker Street by eight. Not that hard, really, except for the voice in his head reminding him Mycroft would be there, finding fault with every outfit he chose.

_He’s seen you at 4am at a murder scene_.

It was hardly a first impression.

Surveying the pile of shirts on the bed, Greg chose the dark grey, opting for navy jeans. He told himself it was sloppy to leave his shirt tails out; tucking them in would show off the way the denim clung to his arse, but that was hardly a consideration. He just didn’t want to look sloppy.

_Liar._

A quick fix of his hair, and Greg was ready to go. Only ten minutes later than he’d planned. Still plenty of time to get over to Baker Street on time, he’d just grab a cab.

As the car inched across London, Greg’s heart started pounding of its own accord.

_Stop it._

Chances were Mycroft would engineer some kind of crisis to avoid attending anyway. He didn’t need to be nervous, not that Greg had ever seen him display any signs of apprehension (until Sherlock’s invitation, that is). He was always capable in social situations; small talk was practically his job.

And Greg didn’t really have to worry about awkward conversations with Mycroft, anyway. It seemed John had invited just about everyone he knew. The flat would be crammed. Greg might not even see Mycroft, if he was there; they could be engaged in separate conversations all night.

“Here y’are, mate.” The cabby’s voice broke into Greg’s attempts at self-assurance.

“Yeah, sorry,” Greg mumbled.

Standing on the street outside 221, he stared at the door, breathing deeply, fiddling with the bottom button on his jacket.

“Excuse-” The voice was familiar, even as it cut itself off.

Greg froze. He turned to see Mycroft standing on the street, looking as though he’d like to sink into the ground up to the chef’s hat perched on his head.

Greg blinked, processing the image before him.

“Um…” Greg cleared his throat, not sure where to begin. He made a stab in the dark. “Sherlock?”

“It appears he believed this would be humorous.” Mycroft’s frosty tone made it clear he did not agree.

Greg took a moment to look Mycroft up and down. It was a simple costume, though Greg had the feeling it was less of a costume and more of a genuine chef’s uniform, complete with hat and a tray of…

“Is that cake?” Greg asked, stepping forward.

“My brother assured me a ‘home-made’ theme would be appropriate,” Mycroft said stiffly. “I thought a small play on words would be appropriate.” He paused. “Besides, we are on Baker Street.”

“You baked all this?” Greg said in surprise. There were a dozen types of baked goods on the tray Mycroft was holding, all beautifully presented. Greg could smell the yeasty warmth from here. His mouth started to water before he could think.

“I draw the line at construction paper and face paint,” Mycroft told him.

“God yes,” Greg replied. “We’re not eight years old.”

“Most of us aren’t,” Mycroft replied dryly.

They stood for a moment, an awkward silence falling over their conversation.

“You’re not going in, are you.” It was a statement, not a question; Greg could see the war going on behind Mycroft’s expression.

“If I do not, I fear Sherlock will seek retribution,” Mycroft admitted. “He planned this carefully to ensure my humiliation.”

Greg stared at him for a long moment, cursing Sherlock’s immaturity, his heart squeezing at the sight of Mycroft’s discomfort. His eyes dropped to the tray of baked goods, and his brain made a connection…

“Look,” he said, mouth moving before his brain could stop it, “do you trust me?”

Mycroft studied him for a long moment. “Yes,” he said quietly.

“Right, let’s go,” Greg said. “Back into your car and off to my place. Don’t worry, we’ll come back.”

Mycroft looked mystified, but he complied. Greg could see how relieved he was to get off the street. Mycroft gave his address to the driver, and it was only a few minutes later they pulled up at Greg’s flat.

“Wait here if you like,” Greg told him. “Just be a few minutes.”

“Greg…” Mycroft faltered. “Thank you,” he managed finally.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Greg said with a grin. “Five minutes, okay?”

Mycroft nodded, looking a little helpless. Greg left him there with the scent of his baking filling the car.

+++

Five minutes later and Greg’s brain had run out of ways to ask him what the hell he was thinking. The zipper had been difficult to do up on his own, and his hand had been shaking as he applied the face paint, but he was done at last. A quick look in the mirror, a final _what the hell_ from his brain and he was back down the stairs, cheeks flushing even under the pink paint he wore.

“Hi,” he said self-consciously to Mycroft. The head of the gingerbread man costume was a little higher than his head, and he had to duck to fit into the car.

It was the first time he’d witnessed Mycroft genuinely speechless.

“I just thought if your brother’s aim was for you to be the only one in fancy dress, maybe it would be better if you had a partner.” Greg flushed even more. “I mean, not a partner, but I have this costume from ages ago, and it kind of matches…”

“Thank you.”

It was less the words than the sudden weight of Mycroft’s hand resting on his arm that made Greg’s brain pause before stuttering back to life.

“Er, no problem,” Greg replied. “I mean, if you wanted to just not go, you can just drop me there, I don’t mind.”

“Leaving you the only one in fancy dress?” Mycroft asked with one eyebrow raised.

Greg shrugged. “That’d probably wreck your brother’s plan too.”

He could see Mycroft blinking. “I don’t…I’m not sure why you would offer to do such a thing,” he said eventually.

Greg shrugged again. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” he said. “It’s a way to start a conversation at least.”

Mycroft opened his mouth, puzzlement still clear on his face. He made a little noise of frustration.

“You can’t think of anything worse than this, can you?” Greg asked him, the realisation coming to him.

“Few things would rate higher,” Mycroft admitted, his cheeks growing pink.

Greg sat quietly for a moment, thinking through that. “Surely Sherlock would know that, right? I mean, why would he…”

“Our relationship is…complex,” Mycroft replied carefully. “While Sherlock knows this would be embarrassing, I don’t think he understands…”

“How difficult it would be,” Greg finished when Mycroft trailed off.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied.

The silence fell again.

“Well, what do you want to do?” Greg asked eventually. “You can drop me off, or I’ll go up first if you like, draw the first looks, do the explanation.” He looked at Mycroft, trying to assess how the other man felt about that option.

“You would…you wouldn’t mind?” Mycroft asked. He sounded more uncertain that Greg had ever seen him.

_Vulnerable._

The word came to Greg’s mind and his heart lurched at the idea that Mycroft would allow himself to be seen like this by Greg. _He trusts me._

“Nope,” Greg said. He grinned. “I’ll get to see your brother’s face, too.”

“Very well,” Mycroft said, though he still sounded unsure. He leaned forward to give the driver instruction, and Greg watched as he nervously adjusted the top of the chef’s hat sitting on the seat opposite.

“Have you always baked?” Greg asked, hoping he wasn’t crossing a line by asking. Mycroft was such a private person, and Greg would wager precious few people knew this about him. At the same time he wanted Mycroft to know he was okay with it; it wouldn’t become a joke.

“Since I was a teenager,” Mycroft said quietly. “I found schoolwork tedious, yet my parents were unwilling to allow me to attend college before I turned sixteen.”

_Holy shit. He really is a genius._

“So you learned to bake?” Greg asked.

“Our housekeeper was highly indulgent,” Mycroft said, and Greg had the feeling he was being gifted prized information. “She was quite happy to teach me the skills of baking as I had so much free time.”

“That’s good,” Greg said. _Jesus, where were their parents?_ “Your parents didn’t cook, I’m guessing.”

“No,” Mycroft replied. “They were less hands-on than other parents would perhaps be.”

Greg didn’t reply. Before he could continue the conversation, the car pulled up at Baker Street.

“Okay, give me a few minutes before you come up,” he said. Mycroft still looked like he might pass out even at the idea. Greg turned further to him, reaching out before he realised his hand was encased in a giant gingerbread suit. Probably not as comforting as he’d like, but it was the best he could do.

“If you don’t show up, that’s completely fine too,” he said. “No pressure. I’ll deal with your brother.”

Mycroft nodded, so Greg gave him a quick grin before he stepped out of the car. It must be almost nine o’clock by now; Baker Street would be full. Probably not the first thing he’d chose to do, but given the circumstances Greg would happily spend the evening in fancy dress just to see Sherlock’s face.

_Just to make Mycroft feel better._

Turning, Greg gave a wave at the car before turning to the door. A note was tacked to it – _not locked, come on up_ – so he did. Stairs were a little difficult in the suit, but he made it, pushing the door open with a deep breath, surveying the party in full swing.

As he’d predicted, the conversation around him tailed off, and it was like a movie – more and more people realised there was something weird going on and looked over.

“Sherlock,” Greg greeted his host, feeling the knowing gleam in his eye. “Seems like there was some kind of mix-up. Not a fancy dress party, then?”

Sherlock looked confused. “No,” he said.

“Greg? That’s kinda…festive,” John said, appearing beside Sherlock, looking a little confused as well.

“Yeah, I was talking to Mycroft, and he mentioned it.” Greg pinned Sherlock with a pointed stare. “It’s weird that he was the only one who thought it was fancy dress, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, flush slightly. “Very odd.”

By this time the rest of the party had returned to their conversations, and Greg could see John had figured out what happened. Both the hosts retreated into the kitchen – one looking resigned, the other exasperated – and Greg helped himself to a beer.

Hanging out near the door seemed like a good idea – he’d be one of the first to see Mycroft – so Greg smiled at Molly and started chatting, keeping one eye on the door.

As the minutes slipped past, Greg realised more and more of his attention was on the door, and less on whatever Molly was talking about. He was burning to go downstairs and see if Mycroft was there – perhaps he was still trying to decide what to do. _Come on_ , Greg urged. _You can do it._

“Greg?” Molly asked, and he jumped, looking guiltily at her.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for…”

Greg’s heart leapt as he spied Mycroft standing just outside the door. Other people might not see it but Greg knew he was steeling himself to join the party. He felt Molly take the bottle from his hand, freeing him to step through the door. He held Mycroft’s eyes, pouring support into his gaze, knowing affection was coming through too, unable to prevent it.

Mycroft’s eyes widened, but he met Greg’s gaze.

“Hello,” Mycroft greeted him warily.

“Hey,” Greg said, as quietly as he could over the sound of the party.

They looked at each other for a long moment, Mycroft’s long fingers gripping and re-gripping the sides of his serving tray. The same nervous habit as when Sherlock first mentioned the party.

Greg’s heart squeezed as he recognised it.

_Christ, he’s brave to even consider this._

The discomfort was written all over him, and Greg couldn’t help smiling a little, feeling the affection rise in his chest.

 “You know what?” Greg said, stepping closer.

“What?” Mycroft asked, more fear showing in his eyes.

“Screw your brother. Do you want to do this or not?” Greg asked.

Mycroft did not answer, licking his lips nervously.

“Well I’m gonna wager it’s a no,” Greg told him. “So let’s go. We’ll deal with whatever happens later.” Greg swallowed, knowing Mycroft had noticed his use of ‘we’. He stood firm, waiting for Mycroft’s response.

“Very well,” Mycroft replied.

“Great,” Greg said. He turned Mycroft around, hands guiding his shoulders. “Let’s go right now.”

Mycroft did not argue; Greg wondered if he was in shock. The car was still waiting, and as soon as they stepped inside, it took off.

“You didn’t think you’d be there too long, did you?” Greg asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “I anticipated a…hostile reception.”

“Hostile? Jesus, I do not understand you and Sherlock,” Greg muttered. He looked over; Mycroft looked as though he was shaking.

Greg shrugged off the urge to put his arms around him and pull him close. _Definitely not appropriate_. Instead they sat in silence, the car filling again with the scent of the freshly baked goods.

“Thanks,” Greg said when they arrived at his flat. He reached automatically for his keys…and swore to himself.

“Gregory?” Mycroft asked.

“No pockets,” Greg said ruefully. “No keys.”

“Ah,” Mycroft replied. “I could…there are several options…”

“Right,” Greg said. “Well, I’m warm enough in here, so if you want to just call a locksmith…”

Mycroft had spoken at the same time. “Actually, if you’re amenable to some company I wouldn’t mind…”

They both stopped.

“You’d be welcome to join me for the evening,” Mycroft corrected himself.

“Sure,” Greg agreed, hoping he didn’t sound too eager.

+++

When they arrived at Mycroft’s building, Greg half joked about the lack of visible security. Mycroft replied seriously, “Good security is always discreet.”

_Jesus, he’s more powerful than I thought._

The flat was beautiful, as Greg expected; discreet and tasteful, with a definite Christmas theme. He watched with amusement as Mycroft carefully removed his bread display tray from around his neck, placing it on the table along with his chef’s hat.

“If you’d like to change, I can provide you with something to wear,” Mycroft offered.

“Actually,” Greg hesitated, “D’you think I could have a shower?” He plucked at the fabric of the suit. “This synthetic stuff doesn’t really breathe.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied immediately.

Greg followed him to the bathroom, watching awkwardly as Mycroft picked out spare towels. “Just a moment,” he murmured, leaving Greg to try and get himself out of his costume.

Greg was still trying to reach the zipper at the back of his suit when Mycroft returned with a pile of clothing.

“Would you like…” Mycroft asked, hesitating, one hand half way to Greg.

“Yes, please,” Greg replied.

He turned. It wasn’t until Mycroft’s hands rested between his shoulder blades Greg realised he was holding his breath.

_Christ, he’s undressing me._

He suppressed a groan as the zipper started slowly down his spine, and the cool air on his skin made Greg shiver. The sound of the teeth parting was loud, eclipsed only by his pounding pulse. The pressure of Mycroft’s other hand pressed to Greg’s back, travelling slowly downward, keeping pace with the zipper... _Jesus._ The touch was firm, but it raised goose bumps as it passed across Greg’s skin.

_Is he feeling this too?_

The zipper tab reached his lower back and stopped, but Mycroft’s hand did not move.

Greg breathed unsteadily, not sure what was going to happen but knowing what he wanted. With the zipper down Greg could feel air brushing the nape of his neck. Mycroft would have to lower his head to watch what he was doing; it must be his breath, skating over Greg’s skin.

The thought made him shiver again.

“Excuse me,” Mycroft whispered, and a second later, his presence was gone.

_Dammit._

After a quick shower – colder than he would have liked – Greg dressed himself. It was bizarre pulling on Mycroft’s clothes; the intimacy was impossible to ignore. They were close enough in size, but Mycroft was taller. The pyjama trousers were too long, and though the soft t-shirt fit lengthwise, it was a little tighter than Mycroft probably wore it.

Thank God Greg’d been wearing clean pants.

Greg checked his face was clear of face paint, and that his hair wasn’t sticking up in too many weird places before he opened the door and made his way back out to the living room.

Mycroft was standing by the sofa, and he turned immediately as soon as Greg appeared. He’d changed out of his chef’s costume, and the soft jumper and white shirt he wore made Greg’s mouth go dry.

_Jesus H Christ, he’s wearing jeans._

“Hi,” Greg said, immediately awkward. He couldn’t get the thought of Mycroft’s hand trailing slowly down his back out of his mind.

“Hello,” Mycroft replied. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“Sure,” Greg said. “Oh, you’ve made tea, that’s perfect.” He huffed a self-conscious laugh. “I was actually going to ask if you’d mind if I ate some of your costume.”

Mycroft looked confused until Greg pointed to the tray of baked goods. “Oh. Certainly,” Mycroft replied immediately.

They moved to the dining table, Greg’s heart thudding when their knees brushed – Mycroft had chosen the end seat and Greg the one beside him. Greg looked over the serving tray, amazed at the array of goods Mycroft had presented. He obviously took pride in his ability.

“Are those scones?” Greg asked, pointing.

“They are,” Mycroft replied. He pointed to several varieties. “Plain, fruit, or cheese.”

“Oh excellent,” Greg said, placing a fruit scone on his plate. “I’ve tried making them but they never rise properly.”

“A light touch is needed,” Mycroft agreed. “Scones are certainly…was something amusing?”

“’Scones’?” Greg grinned. “So posh. You rhyme it with cone.”

“Yes, Gregory, that is the correct pronunciation.”

“Nope,” Greg disagreed, taking a bite. “Rhymes with gone. S-gone.”

Mycroft looked appalled. “I’m not sure I agree…what are you doing?”

Greg froze. “Eating my _s-gone_ ,” he said, emphasizing the pronunciation.

“Did you not wish to split and top it?”

“I beg your pardon?” Greg blurted. The phrase was vaguely pornographic, though he couldn’t think why.

In response Mycroft left the room, only to return bearing a dish of clotted cream and a pot of jam. He placed them on the table with a knife and a spoon.

“You split your scone,” he said, delicately dividing the pastry with his fingers, “then top it with jam and cream.”

“Hmm,” Greg said, pointedly taking a bite of his scone, still whole and un-split. “You don’t have any butter, though.”

“Butter?” Mycroft sputtered as he carefully spooned jam onto his scone. “You cannot be serious.”

“Well, yes,” Greg said, distracted by Mycroft’s attention to his own scone. “I’ll take jam and cream if you don’t have any butter…wait, did you put the cream on first?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “I’m not a heathen, Gregory.”

He couldn’t help it, Greg found himself giggling at the ridiculous conversation. Looking up, he could see the sparkle in Mycroft’s eyes. _Good, he’s relaxing. Having a good time, hopefully._

“Okay, then,” Greg asked, sipping at his tea. “We have an American guy at work at the moment, a forensic specialist. He was asking about biscuits versus cookies. He maintains that biscuits are breakfast food to be eaten with,” he paused, trying to remember, “’sausage gravy,’ whatever that is.” He raised his eyebrows. “It sounds like he’s talking about s-gones, to be honest. Nothing like our biscuits. Do you have an opinion on the matter?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. He cleared his throat. “The term biscuit originally meant ‘twice-baked’ and applied to foods like hard tack, which was likely quite distasteful but did preserve excellently for sea voyages. In America, when colonists began to settle they realized they no longer needed the preservative properties of twice-based products, and began to single-bake them and allow them to remain soft, but never changed the name. In comparison, the British recipe remained closer to the original, maintaining the crunchy texture. American cookies, on the other hand, developed with other immigrants and shifted due to the availability of cheap sugar, and derived more or less from miniature cake recipes. Therefore cookies and biscuits are very different products in the United States.”

Greg laughed out loud at the impromptu history lesson. “That’s brilliant!” he exclaimed. Scone eaten, he looked again to the tray of pastries. “What are these?” he asked.

“The term ‘digestive’ would be the most apt description,” Mycroft explained. “Chocolate dipped, of course.”

“Of course,” Greg grinned at him, taking a biscuit. “What defines a digestive, then?”

“Digestives are Scottish in origin and were specifically developed to aid digestion by using sodium bicarbonate in the baking process. I understand people believed they worked like antacids. In the present day, the term has come to describe anything resembling a biscuit, baked using coarse brown wheat flour and malt. More or less.”

Greg nodded, mouth full of home-made digestive. He took a sip of his tea, swallowing. “You have a serious talent, Mycroft. These are really good.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied. He dropped his eyes, taking a small bite of his own scone.

“What’s your favourite thing to make?” Greg asked. He wanted to keep the conversation going. This was the most open he’d ever seen Mycroft – dryly amusing, happy to gently tease and be teased in return. It was bewitching, and Greg couldn’t help hoping it would lead to something…more.

“Probably bread,” Mycroft replied. “It takes patience and time.” He smiled, and Greg thought he detected some sadness. “I do not have the opportunity to make it often.”

“So, a question, then,” Greg asked. He picked up a cheese scone and a small bread roll dusted in flour. “What’s the difference between a scone and bread?”

Mycroft tilted his head and gave him a pointed look. “Really, Gregory.”

“What?” Greg said, protesting. “I’m sure you have an opinion.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “I will instead put a question to you, if you will take it.”

_If you will take it. Christ._

“Of course,” Greg replied.

“Have you discussed the term ‘flapjack’ with your American co-worker?”

Greg frowned. “No,” he said.

Mycroft’s mouth twitched in a carefully controlled smile. “In America the term ‘flapjack’ would generally refer to what we would call a pancake.”

“What?” Greg said. “Seriously?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said, eyes roving over Greg’s face.

Greg considered the fact, incredibly aware of Mycroft’s eyes on him.

“So what do they call a flapjack, then?”

“Well, that’s an interesting question,” Mycroft said. “In America, the term ‘bar’ is used, generally with a descriptor to differentiate the specific type of snack, such as ‘lemon bar’ or ‘granola bar’.”

“Granola, wait, what’s granola?”

“An oat based cereal. Similar to muesli,” Mycroft replied.

“Right,” Greg replied. He met Mycroft’s eyes and felt his stomach swoop as they smiled together for a moment.

“In the former colonies, however, the term ‘muesli bar’ is common for what we would call a flapjack.”

“Well what do you consider a flapjack to be?”

Mycroft’s eyes glittered. “I believe the term ‘consolidated porridge’ is accurate.”

Greg couldn’t help but laugh at the term. _Good Lord, he’s hilarious when he relaxes._ He cast around for something else to ask, to keep this going.

“And they have pancakes, right?”

“Larger items are pancakes; small, bitesize versions are termed pikelets.”

Greg shook his head. “Okay, here’s one for you: what’s the difference between cake and bread, then?”

Mycroft’s face did not change as he intoned, “The scientific definition between bread and cake, is the following: you put butter on bread, you put cream on cake.”

Greg broke into delighted laughter, his mirth increasing as Mycroft spoke seriously again.

“That is not my opinion, Gregory. That is science and I will fight in science’s name if I must.”

Greg looked at Mycroft, laughter still writ on his face. “You want to draw me a diagram, don’t you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a visual aid, Gregory.”

“Of course not,” Greg assured him, biting back more laughter. “Though I do have one further question.”

“Oh dear,” Mycroft murmured, though his eyes were sparkling.

Greg’s heart leapt at the sight.

“What about gingerbread? Where does that lie? Is it a cookie, or a biscuit or a cake?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Very well,” he sighed. “Gingerbread is a unique case, as it depends on the exact composition and baking time. Many recipes contain sodium bicarbonate, which make it similar to a digestive, though it lacks the coarse wheat flour and usually the malt. If they’re thicker they tend to be softer, more similar to American cookies; thinner versions are crunchier and would be considered biscuits by the British.”

Greg could barely speak for laughing now, Mycroft’s sense of humour perfectly dry and amusing.

“Crumpets?”

“Yeasted pancakes,” Mycroft said, now smiling openly at Greg.

“And what about jaffa cakes?” Greg asked. “It’s an important question.”

“Legally, they are cakes,” Mycroft shot back.

“But what if I butter them, are they bread then?”

Mycroft stared at him. “Who on earth would butter a jaffa cake, Gregory?”

Greg shrugged, his shoulders shaking. “I dunno. But you said…” he stopped, shaking his head, unable to speak for laughing. Greg glanced over, loving the amusement still dancing around Mycroft’s eyes and mouth.

“How do you define each of these items?” Mycroft asked, waving one hand over his basket.

“Easy,” Greg said. “If it squishes, it’s cake. If I made a sandwich out of it, it’s bread. If it crunches, it’s a biscuit.”

Mycroft nodded, his eyes meeting Greg’s again. “Most enlightening,” he murmured.

“This conversation is brilliant,” Greg blurted. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

Mycroft smiled back. “I appreciate your help with the earlier situation,” he replied. “I’m not sure everyone would be so understanding.”

Greg shrugged. “I’m not pretending to understand what goes on between you and Sherlock. But I could see you didn’t really want to go upstairs, so…”

“So you aided me,” Mycroft replied softly.

The atmosphere had changed, Greg could feel it. He shivered, his skin remembering the intimacy of Mycroft’s fingers pressing through the thin synthetic.

“Well,” Greg said, “that’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

“Friends?” Mycroft asked. “Is that what we are, Gregory?”

Greg considered the question. It felt like Mycroft was giving him an opportunity, encouraging him to take a chance.

“I think we are, right now,” he answered, heart hammering. Carefully, he laid one hand over Mycroft’s where it rested by his teacup. “If it was up to me, though…maybe we could be…not friends.”

Mycroft’s fingers flexed as though testing if Greg’s hand was real or not. Carefully, they twisted, wrapping around Greg’s. “I…yes,” he replied, voice thick.

Greg’s heart surged.

_Holy shit, he said yes._

Mycroft was close enough for Greg to lean forward, pressing his free hand to Mycroft’s neck, feeling the pulse throb below his skin. His nervous heart eased a little when Mycroft leaned in to meet him, the kiss deeper than Greg had anticipated.

It was not the tentative press he’d been aiming for. Instead he found his lips parting, matching Mycroft’s, more intimate than he had dared hope for. He could taste the jam from Mycroft’s scone, and the recollection of their conversation made him smile enough to break the kiss.

“Sorry,” he murmured, staying close. “Just remembering the s-gone conversation.”

The sound Mycroft made was somewhere between a laugh and a moan and a groan, as Greg’s lips mapped a path to his ear.

Greg grinned, pressing his face into Mycroft’s neck, breathing deeply. “I don’t think I’ll look at a s-gone again the same.”

“I believe a range of baked goods will now…oh…have new associations,” Mycroft agreed breathlessly. “Certainly I will not be able to eat _scones_ in public for a long while.”

Greg chuckled. “No more splitting and topping, then?” he asked.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said admonishingly.

“You said it,” Greg told him, kissing his ear.

“It is the correct term for it,” Mycroft protested weakly.

“Well perhaps we could redefine it, then,” Greg told him.

Mycroft pulled back, smiling at Greg’s impish grin. “I believe Christmas baking this year will be more…adventurous than in previous years,” he said. The glint in his eye was nothing like his hesitance earlier; Greg shivered at the implication.

“A Christmas miracle?” Greg asked, grinning.

“I believe it might be,” Mycroft replied, leaning back to kiss Greg once again, the scent of fresh baking surrounding them both.


End file.
